


Trast

by Domimagetrix



Series: Djinnbound [5]
Category: No Fandom
Genre: Absurd and Slightly Lewd (Largely Ridiculous) Behavior, Adult Humor, Adult Language, Comic Relief and also Plot, Don't worry it's absolutely probably a joke, Mild Joking (but is it really?) Reference to Vore, Other, Trast (Tag), Trast Please Don't Hit on the Camarilla Leader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 17:56:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18015596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domimagetrix/pseuds/Domimagetrix
Summary: The Protectorate boasts one perpetual disaster: Agent Trast Ma-Hir. Even disasters get Plot.





	Trast

_Winds north by northwest, approximately two and a half hundred-strides per hour. Target surface occupied by two reams of paper and one pen cup, an estimated six pens within. Gentlepeople of the night shift security camera watch, it’s about to get… sticky._

Dassi, stationed at the objective and scrolling through readouts on her GIN interface, offered him warning. “Don’t you dare.”

Trast half-crouched in a runner’s preparatory stance and wiggled his back foot.

“I mean it. Do it and die.”

He crouched lower, splaying fingertips on the carpet, lithe form tensed to sprint.

“I will _end you.”_

The challenge was issued. Trast shot forward.

_“Motherf-”_

He leaped, ass skidding across Dassi’s desk, tidy paper stacks spreading like fanned cards. The pen cup went flying. Pens bounced off the floor and spun pinwheels in the air before coming to rest.

Trast’s ass did not come to rest. It kept skidding, inertia lubricated by looseleaf paper, and slowed near the other side of the personnel manager’s workstation. There was a dramatic pause as the edge pressed painfully into one cheek.

He teetered. His legs flailed and his hand sought purchase behind him. It found air.

He fell.

Dassi’s voice chastised him from somewhere above the desk as he dragged floor-impact-stolen air into himself again. “I’m billing you. That’s the interdepartmental official letterhead, not the cheap.” The sound of papers being resorted shared the moment with a tired huff. “Pick up those pens.”

“I’m injured!”

A stapled sheaf of paper, these with typed instructions and lines meant for signatures, spun out from somewhere above and landed on his face. _Was hospitalization required - Y/N_ blurred before his eyes.

Dassi snorted. “File a report.”

He slid the work injury report off his face and clutched it to his chest, wrinkling it, still prone. “My dignity requires hospitalization. This is the end, Dassi, _my end.”_

“That’s what you get for running your end over my desk and making a mess, you absolute hairball.”

“I’m acting out due to work-induced malaise!”

“No, you aren’t. Pick up my pens.”

“I need to see the on-duty nurse.”

Dassi groaned. “The on-duty nurse is still recovering from the gift basket of squeaky toys and handcuffs you sent him. _Pens,_ Trast.”

Trast wormed his way up to a crawl and began picking up pens. _“Yes,_ Mistress.”

A companionable silence fell between them as he went about undoing his mess.

Litter gathered, he rose to a kneel on the opposite end of the desk from Dassi. He pressed his nose against the edge and lifted the cup with pens for her inspection. “A bouquet befitting a goddess, my liege.”

She accepted the cup, placing it next to the salvaged paper pile, then dipped a hand behind the desk to the tune of a drawer opening. “Nice earrings.”

Trast flicked an ear and set the cheerful sperm caricatures to jingling. “That’s what I love about you, Dassi. You notice the little things. This bodes well for our future together.”

Dassi withdrew a blue rectangle of paper. Holding it between thumb and index finger, she nudged her glasses up her nose and adopted an official tone. “I, Trast Belard Ma-Hir, acknowledge that I have violated Protectorate office dress code. As it has been at least one year since my last infraction, any previous infractions are hereby null and void. This warning will be entered into my record for the duration of one year, to be dismissed once that year has expired.”

She leaned forward, pasting the blue slip to Trast’s forehead by the sticky strip at its top. “Your passkey into the new year, child. What was old is made new again.”  
  
Trast closed his eyes in mock bliss. “Thank you, fellow Protectorate wage slave. I shall endeavor to continue undermining the system and infusing this institution’s old, tired cynicism with fresh, young, nubile cynicism, in the grand tradition of our-” 

“Trast, go to work.”

“But it’s our anniversary!”

Dassi leaned on one elbow, pointing toward the shock of silver in her hair that’d been wound into a bun with the brown. “Do you see this, you ridiculous being? You’re responsible for every strand of it.”

He grinned. “Are you accusing me of refining beauty into more mature beauty?” He offered her his wrists over the desk. “I plead guilty, Your Hotness.”

She exhaled slowly, red eyes closed. “Go put your report in your folder.” Her eyes opened again. “And go to the ifrit offices as soon as you’re done. The Ifrit Prime asked us to send someone over to meet with them.”

Trast widened his eyes at her over the desk and straightened so much as the kneel would allow. “You trust me?”

Dassi leaned over and ruffled his gelled spikes. He saw her wince at the crunch beneath her hand as she spoke. “I exercise my right to withhold answers which may implicate me.”

He squinted. “Is that a ‘yes?’”

“Please don’t jingle sperm at the Camarilla leader.”

Trast turned over her response in his head, considering, then smiled. “Thanks, Dassa.”

Dassa went back to her readouts and waved him off. “Shoo. Out of here. You exhaust me.”

He leaped to his feet, saluting, and half-tiptoed to her potted tree, wrapping his arms around it. He made a hip-pumping motion against the thin trunk before letting go. “I leave ‘em all exhausted; they keep coming back for more.”

_“Get away from my plants.”_

“I love your plants. Sometimes really hard.”

“Keep it up, and I’ll get one of those carnivorous ones. Big enough to eat you.”

“I’m into that, you know-”  
  
_“Get the fuck out of my office.”_

Grinning, he trotted toward the door. “It really puts the flavor into lunch dates-”  
  
_“OUT!”_

  
  


_………._

  
  


Evening air, further cooled by the cement in the spiral underground parking lot, brought with it the smell of water and clay. The blue-undercast orange sodium lights reflected off parked road vehicles, surface-curved beams gliding across Protectorate and personal autos alike. Trast walked past them toward his own metal steed.

Sodium lighting hid the nature of its almost phosphorescent green paint, and gave the collection of stuffed animals behind the rear windshield a shared hollow, haunting stare. He patted the glass over their faces. “No scratches, dents, or tickets. Best guards ever.”

He moved to the side of the car and rested his palm on the vehicle door’s interface. “Arise from technology’s nightmarish bowels, O Evil One. I summon thee!”

A neutral, robotic voice answered him. “Request unclear. Please restate.”

Trast sighed. “Door open, engine on.”

“Acknowledged.”

The engine hummed quietly to life, and the overlapping panels of the iris door spiralled open. He angled himself inside, plopping into the chair, and tapped the panel in front of him. “Travel from current location to Ifrit Camarilla spire. Visitor parking.”

The panel glowed in soft lines, detailing a map. On the right, numbers and traffic reports sped down the side too quickly for his eyes to follow. The door closed behind him with a muted sound and momentary change in air pressure.

The GINterface spoke again. “Reports indicate public transit for speediest arrival.”

Trast pinched one of his earrings and slid it out, laying it in the dash’s cup holder. “No trains, trams, or busses. Just take me to the Camarilla spire.”

“Route program active, sensors on.”

He sat back, earrings removed, reclining the seat until he could stare up at the roof. “Music.”

“Please indicate style, artist, or station.”

He felt momentarily disembodied as the vehicle began to move. It felt like a smooth music kind of evening. “Meousta Hamar. ‘Long Side of the Road.’ Whole album.”

Music filled the interior of the car, strings and a low drumbeat accompanied by a soulful, male voice. Trast hummed along, then sang in tandem with Meousta.

And then he didn’t.

Meousta pondered, _“but when will the long side of the road bring me to you?”_

Trast disagreed, _“but when will the long side of you go up my road?”_

The music dimmed in volume and the GINterface spoke up. “Discrepancy indicates unfamiliarity with the lyrics. I can download lyrics from the official posted discography, if you require.”

He blew air up at the ceiling, then lifted his head and quirked an eyebrow at the panel in front of him. “Is that disapproval I hear coming out of you, lovely?”

“Please restate the question.”

Trast snorted, letting his head fall back on the headrest. “Just let me sing, babes.”

“Acknowledged.” The GINterface almost sounded amused.

He closed his eyes, this time singing along without retooling the words to his amusement.

Orange parking lot lighting brightened and faded behind his lids. The color gave way to the blue-white of mercury vapors common to the business districts at night, then faded gently back to orange as the vehicle made its way into the Ifrit Camarilla zone. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know the stark, personality-bereft buildings had given way to bulb-tipped buildings and gloriettes, manicured grass to equally manicured tropical gardens.

The car’s GINterface interrupted Meousta’s pondering the similarities between love’s memory and hard liquor, again quieting the music. “You have a call, Agent Ma-Hir.”

“I’ll take it.” He shifted upward in his seat.

A woman’s deeply unamused voice issued from the dash, sounding as though a speech had been captured mid-progress. “After you were born, I said to myself, ‘Self, there’s no way your loins could unleash a _second_ bundle of crazy into the world. You had Trast, and that’s where your crazy production ends.’ That’s what I said to myself. Do you _have any idea the kind of agony you cause?”_

Trast grinned and reached back behind himself, grabbing one of his stuffed animals and hugging it to his face to stifle a snicker before seating it on his chest. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie. Your as-of-yesterday sixteen-year-old brother handed his teacher a spinning tray with gifts on it. Would you like to guess what was in the packages?”

He wiggled the stuffed animal between his palms. “So, how is everyone at the house?”

His mother’s tone held a false indulgence. “Why, yes, it _was_ lingerie. Quite a variety, too. I wonder where he got _that_ idea?”

Trast wormed his way back up to a sitting position, levering the back of the seat upright. He set the stuffed animal back with its fellows on the rear dash. “I’m contractually obligated to provide dating advice upon request.”

_“Boy, I can’t deal with another one of you.”_

He stuck his tongue out at the console speaker. “You got one out of three and kept going. Admit it, I’m your favorite son.”

His mother sighed audibly. “You can make it up to me. He’s up for review and placement with the Scholastic Commission for Art. Rescue him from destroying his career and charm the review board. Interview’s in two days.”

The car wove around the front of the Ifrit spire and chose the path leading down toward another underground parking lot. Trast’s hand hovered over a spot on the panel where “call concluded” blinked in red. “Hey, Mom? I gotta go. Foreign dignitaries just walked in, and I need to assassinate at least five to get a gold star this week.”

_“I’ve told you not to joke about that shi-”_

“Loveyoumombye!” He tapped the panel, and his mother’s outrage cut off mid-word.

Irregular bouts of sodium light offered Trast glimpses of his hair in the pull-down mirror. Curved spikes became deeper copper with each pass of a lamp, and he gingerly patted the rigid style with his palm. His tie was off-center, and he shuffled the knot until it sat at a less haphazard angle. His own ifrit-orange eyes returned his inspection.

It was odd to be sent alone on government business; he’d done his fair share of assignments, but few ever involved him making a first - or third - impression.

He thought back.

_“And go to the ifrit offices as soon as you’re done. The Ifrit Prime asked us to send someone over to meet with them.”_

Six other agents were on duty still, four of whom had seniority in the department. It was standard procedure to send highest seniority when a request came through from the Camarilla offices.

It sat oddly in his head.

_I’ve been requested?_

The vehicle slid into a parking space. Trast told the GINterface to turn off the engine, and he exited, activating the security system and heading for the elevator door set in the central concrete pillar in the lot. His footsteps echoed in the largely empty space, and his mind worried at the deviation from protocol.

_Why me?_

  
  


_………._

  
  


The journey up to the Ifrit Prime’s floor was a visually appealing one. The Drujanai spire offices were sparing and efficient, the interior uninviting in the effort to look governmental. The Palisadi ones were congested by comparison - too embellished, every corner clogged with statuary in a manner that struck Trast like a classic case of overcompensation.

The Ifrit Camarilla had spared no expense toward welcome. A stone fish pond sat in the center of the lobby, water circulating through a glass cascade fountain lodged in its middle. There was a warm, clean simplicity to the color choices, bronze fish over off-white rocks, vibrant browns below faded tans on the walls. Protectorate offices tended toward muted colors and simplicity, too, but the blues and grays there seemed lifeless. The ifrit government had seen a little in its predecessors as well as their shared judicial branch, their interior decorator forging a happy medium between the three.

The brooding he’d indulged in as he’d spotted Rhann and his wife strolling through Pillarlight Parkway - one that’d lingered even while he’d spoken to his harried mother - began to lift.

 _Didn’t call in Kaid. Didn’t go through the seniority pecking order. How cool is this? They want_ me!

Trast grinned at the receptionist and waggled his fingers in a cheery wave. The man at the desk lifted his hand in return, beckoning slightly, then offered a proper one when Trast drew his work card out of his breast pocket and showed it to him.

The receptionist spoke over the low sound of the fountain. “Agent…?”

“Ma-Hir.” Trast smoothed his hand down his front, pocketing his card and lifting the other hand in preemptive refusal. “No autographs, please, but I take a cute picture.”

The receptionist snorted, shaking his head and tapping something into his GIN readout. “I’ll bet.” He waved the agent on. “Big elevator, eighteenth floor. Don’t forget to swipe your card or it’ll put you through to security.”

“Are they good with handcuffs? I love handcuffs.”

The man’s snort dragged out into staccato, nasal laughter. “They’re gonna love you.”

Trast grinned. “Will I get the whole team on me if I struggle?”

The receptionist shook his head. “Not security. The Prime.”

“I’m a little prime, myself.” Trast offered him a wink, turning in the direction of the receptionist’s earlier gesture. “Time to service the government! Or serve? I always get ‘em mingled since my ass winds up raw either way.”

The other man’s snorting devolved to a smoker’s cough. “Dah- _damnit!”_ Something in his chest rattled alarmingly before another fit dislodged it. He slapped the table and waved Trast away. “Go on. Smartass.”

Trast shot him a smile over his shoulder and made his way to the elevators. “Fifteen drueen says I walk out of their office with a home call code.”

The receptionist’s voice followed him into the elevator, his mutter wavering with the promise of another coughing fit. “Not takin’ that bet.”

  
  


……….

  
  


The elevator’s internal mechanisms hummed softly as Trast ascended into the Ifrit Camarilla spire. He leaned back against the carpeted rear wall, withdrawing his identification card, and tilted it to and fro until he grew bored watching the holographic interlocking triangles change color.

Looking up, he saw a tiny black pit in the corner where walls met ceiling, and stared at the camera as he ran his tongue over the card’s face in a long, leisurely swath. He thought about upping the lewd ante with a suggestive dance, then settled for mouthing _daddy_ at whomever manned the viewing screens.

Disconnection travelled through him as the elevator slowed. He wiped saliva from his ID before passing it along the scanner next to the door, getting an approving blip for his effort. Something clacked between the doors and beyond. He pocketed the card.

The doors opened. He stepped out.

The Prime’s “office” was a suite, a spacious affair gently rounded until there were no true corners. Gilded furniture he’d seen in historical photos of the Prime Office no longer sat centered in the room, replaced at some point with humbler couches and chairs in keeping with the new Prime’s own political persona. Just as their speeches were largely divested of esoteric political jargon, accessible to everyone, so had their surroundings been tailored to something less pompous and more relatable. The color scheme wasn’t dissimilar to the lobby, save the addition of warm maroons and glass features become curved bay windows offering a view of Tavarim City’s luminous circulatory system.

The Prime sat curled in an overstuffed chair, a few independent display units piled next to the GIN readout on a table next to them. A straight lock from their pixie cut kept flirting with the divided points on their ear, which flicked minutely in an absent attempt to dislodge it as they set down a display and waved him over.

They uncurled a leg just enough to foot-scoop discarded shoes closer to the base of the chair before the same leg joined its fellow. A long finger succeeded where ear-flicking failed, and they reached out once the hair had been secured behind their ear. “Welcome, Agent Ma-Hir.”

He reached out and shook briefly. “Prime.”

“Selia.” They took their hand back and planted one on each armrest, shifting in the seat and refolding their legs. They gestured at the other chair.

Trast sat, tempted to remove his shoes and curl into comfort as the Prime had after a long shift, but the admonition to behave himself still sat at the forefront of his mind. He settled for crossing ankle over knee and meeting the Prime’s amber-flecked orange gaze with his own. “Selia.” _Don’t hit on the Camarilla leader._ “How can I be of service?”

Selia planted an elbow on the armrest and folded their hands together. “This Office has an unusual request. You’re an unusual agent.”

 _So I really was requested._ “I’m not senior in the Department.”

Selia unfolded their fingers, plopped chin into palm, and huffed good-naturedly. “Good to know my speech about age prejudice in the workplace was popular with the Protectorate.”

Trast felt the primordial seed pod of regret unfurl in his stomach and do something to his face he couldn’t suppress. “I didn’t mean-”

The Prime waved their hand at him in an unconcerned gesture. “Relax. Nobody watches the speeches until election season.” The gesture changed course toward the window and was repeated. “Ever notice Dachnavar looks like she’s clamped down on a hot fart during hers?”

Trast coughed, then gave up and laughed. “All the Drujanai Camarilla’s speeches give me cramps, but she’s the only one who makes me actively bear down.”

Selia belted out a hard _pffssss_ and laughed with him. “No lie!”

Like that, some of the formality - the rigid expectation - drained out of the room. Trast felt it and settled back a little in his chair. “And so. What can I do for the Camarilla?”

They settled back in their own chair, running fingers through the tiny brown spirals above their ear. “This isn’t for the Camarilla. Not all of it.”

He blinked. “Not for you?”

Selia shook their head. “No, it’s for me. Not the Camarilla, or not yet, anyway.”

Trast stayed quiet.

The Prime exhaled and began gesturing softly with their hands as they spoke. “Official stance by the Protectorate on this God-Kings business is that it’s a non-issue. Or not a return, but the work of some unknown group.”

He nodded. “Boss is sticking with the Underground theory. They’ve got the money, they’ve got motive.”

Selia nodded in return. “Good theory. It’s wrong.”

Trast sat forward.

They sighed. “Confidentiality.”

Despite the warmth of the company and the suite, Trast felt chilled. He’d never been part of a case where the Confidentiality Clause to government-Protectorate service had been invoked. It meant he couldn’t share whatever the Prime divulged, even to his own boss.

He tried to look seasoned enough not to be disquieted. “Understood.”

Selia smiled faintly. “I’m sorry to put you in this position, but you and I, and two of the Viziers, will be the only people in the Protectorate or the Ifrit Camarilla who know in full what I’m about to disclose.”

 _Interesting choice of words._ “Alright.”

They pulled one of the independent display units from the pile and held it out to him. “Chemical analysis from samples taken from the Western Shore spires.”

He accepted it and looked down. Two generous helpings of figures sat side-by-side on the display alongside a pair of identical graphs. “More than one?”

“One. The other was pulled from records, an older analysis done on what’s left of the old blood spires.”

Trast looked back up. “This isn’t just chemical analysis, is it?” He tapped the readout. “Looks like bio homework, too.”

“It’s…” Selia’s mouth quirked in a sad half-smile. “It’s bio-homework, too.”

“Same DNA?”

“Identical.”

He passed the readout back to the Prime. “That’s pretty strange, but it isn’t confirmation.”

Selia agreed. “It isn’t, but nobody lives that long. And inert blood is useless blood, no matter how powerful the palis working with it.”

Trast reminded himself to ask Attria about that later. He wasn’t squeamish, but the palis sometimes took after the druja in secretiveness where their abilities were concerned. “Is there more?”

Selia took another readout from the pile and handed it to him. “Property buyouts on the Shore. Take a look at the values and the purchase statements.”

He did. Shore property on the western side wasn’t quite the prize found in the crystalline pools to the south, or even the eastern blocks of beaches, but the purchase prices and values didn’t compare. At all.

He coughed. _“Seventy thousand dureen for Mandehar Beach?”_

Selia accepted the readout when Trast passed it back, setting it with the rest. “And the names aren’t valid. Whomever’s buying up Western Shore properties are getting them at a steal, and they’re using performing artist laws to avoid public record.”

A weight sank in his midsection. “That’s a lot of property. Most of it where the Mandehar ruins were found.”

“If someone wanted to reclaim the old palisadi empire, this is a damned fine start.”

He felt the weight sink further as they handed him a third readout. He took it without looking down. “What’s this?”

Selia seemed to be struggling with something, but determination had won the battle. “Your assignment, Agent Ma-Hir.”

He looked down.

There were no figures, no lists, no words. Only a still image capturing two men seated at an outdoor table, probably a restaurant or tea shop. Afternoon or evening, but something about the hanging vine partition to the left seemed familiar. Tea shop, he was pretty sure. The Artisanal place with the tea-nectar fizzes Rech swore could cure the common cold. The posture of both men suggested hesitation mixed with interest. Leaning forward, no slouching.

The picture had been captured at a bit of an angle, but enough to see a fair portion of both men’s faces.

One was unfamiliar. Both were similarly tan-brown, but the unknown’s face had a sharp, angular beard threaded with silver or white. Red eyes. Slightly thinner facial structure than the other. He was smiling, and the smile reached those red eyes, but something about him made Trast uncomfortable despite that.

The other wore an unremarkable sweatshirt, black hair tied back where the stranger’s fell free. Slightly broader face, similarly broad shoulders, and a jawline that needed no beard to render it square. It was a face he’d enjoyed fantasizing about when he’d first joined Greater Continent Interests from Victim’s Legal Services, an attraction that’d faded once their sibling-like camaraderie had established itself.

Gold hoops in the ears, some overlapping. He’d heard their muted jingle as their owner had shaken his head in the Protectorate cafeteria not three days ago, and heard it again now in his mind.

The familiar man had shaken his head after checking and deleting a message he couldn’t see, then nearly bolted out of the cafeteria so much as he ever _bolted_ anywhere.

Trast looked back up. He felt sucker-punched and put little effort into hiding it. “Not Kaid. He’s not part of it.”

“You’re sure of that?”

The shock was brief. He felt as sure about this as he had about anything in his life. “Not Kaid. Nobody in my department, but _definitely_ not Kaid.”

 _Almost_ sure.

Selia was quiet for a few moments. They spoke softly. “We researched him.”

Trast rolled his eyes, hating to unsettle the nascent rapport further but adamant. “He’s where parties go to fill out the RB-MR-195-225-A in triplicate. Then die.” He pushed Kaid’s recent bout of exceptional quiet out of his mind. “He couldn’t handle the excitement of crime. He’d have a Good Boy stroke.”

He was prepared for the Prime to dismiss his protests. Oddly, they didn’t, seeming to consider his words. “I had a feeling he wasn’t. It’s good to have someone vouch for him in either case. What we found on him wasn’t damning, only worrying.”

They passed him another readout. He stared at the picture - a little boy with Islander-style braids, shells clipped to their ends, a shirt with Leysar Island’s travel logo printed on it in bright colors, and-

Trast squinted down at the picture. At the boy’s eyes. His head jerked back up. _“Kaid?”_

Selia nodded. “He’s devolved-to-druja. Began life an ifrit.”

All the gears and cogs normally devoted to mischief or the plotting of it turned their focus to this news. To Kaid’s endless self-possession, and the rigid barrier he’d erected around himself past surface cordiality.

_That’s why._

The weight in his stomach shifted. He looked downward and pressed his eyes shut, hoping the Prime would interpret it as another look at the readout and not him blinking back the threat of tears.

It made sense, in a heart-wrenching way. Those who devolved were broken, something vital extracted alongside their fire and replaced with a poor, diluted substitute that was foreign to them. Many didn’t come out the other side well-adjusted, like fractured bones left to knit without first being reset. Some lost touch with their internal ethical framework and fell prey to the Underground. Some lost the will to live entirely.

Seemed like Kaid had reset himself so hard he’d divorced himself entirely from the break.

He shifted in the chair. “This doesn’t prove anything. He’s-”

“-I know. It’s alright.” Selia sounded contrite, and genuinely so. “The devolved who make it this long almost always keep making it. Nobody in the know here holds the devolved in contempt.” There was another pause. “And we’re not going to reveal him to the Protectorate or anyone else.”

Trast opened his eyes and looked at them. “I won’t… not even to him.”

Selia smiled again. “Seems Agent Ir-Dal has better friends than he realizes.”

His sadness diminished a little and he returned the smile, a few of his cogs and gears reverting to their usual focus. “Damned right. Now, if only he knew enough to appreciate all the finer things in life, like Kosset oil-wrestling pits. And losing your pants in them.”

Realization hit him only after he’d spoken, but the Prime seemed unperturbed. They cackled, leaning against the armrest and snorting delicately. “Saw the entry in your file about 'Captain Slickbuns.' They composed themselves - somewhat - and grinned outright. “But you really haven’t lived until you’ve been in a Kosset _gel_ pit.”

Trast forgot the readout in his hand for a moment.

_Please. I love you, let’s dust these office jobs, go open an adult playground together on the Islands. We can be a tourist destination for free spirits. I’ll wear shorts made of little bells and bring you huge citrus drinks with flower garnish and we can torture Kaid together._

The last thought brought him back. “So Kaid isn’t my assignment?”

Selia shook their head. “He is, but not the way you think.” They pointed at the readout with the picture of Kaid and Mystery Man on the table. “We’re pretty sure Kaid’s being courted by one of the God-Kings. We want you to watch him, and make sure he doesn’t get involved, if you can.”

Trast felt his nose wrinkle with suppressed laughter. He supposed his expression wouldn’t pass for deadpan, but he tried. “Kaid.”

Selia’s ghost of a smile answered him.

He shook his head. “I know I keep saying this, but definitely not Kaid. He’s not…” _I mean, he’d look scrumptious in something revealing,_ “...he doesn’t. He’s not courtable.”

“We don’t think it’s intimate. Or not _primarily_ intimate.” Selia pointed at the other display again. “We’re pretty sure that’s the old God-King of the palis.”

Trast picked up the other display, holding child-Kaid’s image in his other hand. He looked at the man sitting opposite Kaid.

_Not bad for a couple thousand years’ hiding._

Selia’s voice interrupted his musing. “He’s being courted as a power play.”

_“Kaid?”_

“Kaid. We’ve got someone inside who’s been feeding us the readouts during his interrogations.”

Trast felt his eyebrows furrow. “Why?”

The Prime laced their fingers together over the armrest. “There’s something that appears on them. Not often, but our woman on the inside notices it always happens when he’s playing with a coin.”

Trast slid both readouts onto the desk. “He does tricks with them.” He wiggled his fingers in the air. “Makes them disappear, rolls them over his fingers. It’s part of his method, he says.”

“Maybe. But the abnormalities on the scanner have been found somewhere else. And on a much larger scale.”

“Where?”

Selia pressed their lips together in a thin line before speaking. “Kaid’s filing adoption for a foundling. We don’t have anyone on the inside there, but it wasn’t necessary. The girl’s signature can be scanned through the walls.”

Trast stilled. “That’s not… how? That’s not possible.”

“It shouldn’t be. But what Kaid hints at in close quarters… Agent,” they seemed to gather significance from the air itself and pour it into their voice, “... _Trast,_ she’s off the fucking scale.”

He remembered a little from his training about readouts, shelving the oddity of Kaid adopting anyone for the time being. “So, what is she? Superpowered druja? One of the God-Kings’ long-lost children?”

Selia pressed their thumbs together. “She doesn’t read as any of us. No mind influencing, no fire, no blood.”

“Then what?”

“We think she’s dha-jinnu.”


End file.
